


Roll up your sleeves

by makesometime



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Canon Asexual Character, Choking, Coming Untouched, Dom Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Dom/sub, Finger Sucking, Friends to Lovers, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sex-Favorable Zolf Smith, Size Difference, Sub Zolf Smith, Under-negotiated Kink, Wall Sex, Zolf Smith's musings on the inherent eroticism of Oscar Wilde's forearms, set on the airship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime
Summary: He tries to pay attention. He really does. Normally it’s not even the slightest effort to concentrate on the briefings that the very literal fate of the world hinges on. But he keeps catching sight of the flex of muscles under the skin of Wilde’s forearms, the way the cuffs around his upper arms are now just a little too tight and bite in nicely to the fleshy parts of his biceps.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 22
Kudos: 87





	Roll up your sleeves

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to you this started life as a 5+1 fic that was entirely safe for work. But that's what happens in Rome, I guess.

There’s a part of him that’s toyed with bringing up the fact that Wilde’s got a private space on board the Vengeance when he’s stuck in the crew berths. But what would _he_ do with it really? He’s on deck more often than not and he’s slept in worse places.

It seems to be making Wilde happy, which unfortunately appears to be increasingly important to him, which is something he really doesn’t have time to consider in any depth.

Wilde’s asked for him, according to Hamid, and he doesn’t miss the little smile his friend wears when delivering the message. There isn’t time to think about _that_ either.

“What’s up?” He asks, pushing inside the door of Wilde’s room after a sharp knock.

And freezes.

Wilde’s in the process of rolling up his sleeves, one already settled neatly above his elbow already, the other halfway up his forearm. His shirt is also unbuttoned far enough for Zolf to see a hint of his chest.

It’s ridiculous. He’s seen the man naked more than once. He’s not a blushing maid.

So why is he hesitating, staring at Oscar like he’s a saucy model in a dirty magazine?

“Zolf?”

“You’re going to catch a cold.” He says, in lieu of anything _better_ , less obviously thought up on the spot.

Wilde just smiles. “It’s actually quite pleasant in here. Very good insulation, you know. Cel did an exceptional job.”

“I’ll make sure to pass on your review.” He grouches, taking his place in the seat across from Wilde and keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s face instead. “Now. What did you need?”

He tries to pay attention. He really does. Normally it’s not even the slightest effort to concentrate on the briefings that the very literal fate of the world hinges on. But he keeps catching sight of the flex of muscles under the skin of Wilde’s forearms, the way the cuffs around his upper arms are now just a little too tight and bite in nicely to the fleshy parts of his biceps.

He watches Wilde’s fingers flex and trace over words and places on his many many maps. They’re delicate, strong. Practiced at wielding a pen or the trace of a spell. Long and dextrous compared to his short, thick fingers.

He imagines them pressing him against a wall, pointer finger curling around the base of his throat…

Oh.

That’s. Not good.

“Zolf?”

He glances up, and Wilde’s giving him that look that says everything and nothing at all - knowing, but reserved. It’s been eighteen months and he’s never lost that reservation.

“You’re looking peaky. You’ve not caught a chill have you?”

“M’fine, Wilde. Sorry, my head’s elsewhere.”

Wilde smiles, slowly, resting his elbow on the desk and setting his chin atop his upturned palm. He traces one of those lovely fingers along his scar, apparently deep in thought. “Do you need a hand with that?”

It tightens something in his gut. An instinctive reaction, but one that he’s not sure he wants to ignore anymore.

“What?”

A faint chuckle floats across the desk between them, full of all of Oscar’s stifled magic. “You must know what I’m offering.”

Zolf’s gaze narrows. “Why now?”

“Because it’s been a very long time and I fear we’ve reached an impasse, Mr Smith. Either we’ll fuck now, or we’ll fuck later and to be entirely honest, I’d prefer the former.” He smiles, all of the confidence of his younger self shining through with none of the bratty energy. “It would certainly liven things up.”

“That’s not what you’re offering though… is it?”

Oscar leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his stomach. “You seem to think me incapable of picking up on the energy in this room since you entered it, Zolf.”

Zolf smirks. “Wouldn’t dare suggest as much.”

“Get up.”

He does.

Doesn’t even think.

“Oh, that was easy.” Wilde smiles, not moving from his reclined position. “Very good, Zolf. Might you come around this side of the desk?”

He allows his weary legs to carry him across the small room before he can think better of it. Once he stands in front of Oscar, the man leans forward, tracing two fingers down from Zolf's temple to rest heavy and intent against his lower lip.

“What is it, exactly? My hands? My arms? The quiet eroticism of an unbuttoned shirt?”

Zolf grits his teeth, not sure if Wilde wants an answer. Or even needs one.

“Open.”

He parts his lips and Wilde sighs happily, slipping two fingers into the heat of his mouth.

He sucks on them, watching it spark a lovely heat in Wilde's eyes. He laves the length of them with hungry little pulls of his tongue.

“How long have you wanted this? Needed this?” Wilde ponders, drumming the fingers of his other hand against his unmarked cheek. “Gods… “

Zolf groans, feeling a shudder start at the back of his head and flood downwards in a cool pass of submission that he doesn’t stop to think about. He feels like he’s floating, a little, staring into Oscar’s eyes, watching their pleased crinkle when he breathes in through his nose and runs his teeth over Wilde’s knuckles.

By the time he pulls his hand free of Zolf's mouth and tracks it to the base of Zolf's throat, Wilde’s fingers are soaked and leave cool little trails of wetness on Zolf's skin.

Then. He stands.

Oscar is a tall man. He's got at least two feet on Zolf even on a bad day, and here, Zolf feels every inch of that. As certain as he is that he could overpower Wilde should the mood take him, the pressure Oscar applies, paired with his height, leaves Zolf unable to do anything but comply as they move together towards the wall.

The wall of the ship is curved here, allowing Wilde to urge him back into its gentle support. It sets him slightly off balance, Wilde easily holding him in place with the simple press of one hand. Like this, he seems even taller, confidence making him loom and crowd in so nicely.

Zolf’s not used to feeling so _small._

Wilde hums, tightening his grip at the base of Zolf’s throat and pressing one knee forward to slot between his legs, rocking against the growing line of Zolf’s cock until Zolf relents and widens his stance.

“I could get you off like this, couldn’t I?”

Zolf nods, jerky, and it presses Wilde's thumb into his throat enough to make the thought of Wilde _choking_ him flit across his brain. He tries to gasp but it escapes as a whine that’s unlike any he’s ever heard himself make.

Wilde continues to rock his leg, smiling broadly at the needy arch of Zolf's body in response. “I could get you off and you’d thank me for it.” He hums, tightening his grip. “That is, if you had any breath left to speak with.”

“ _Wilde._ ”

Oscar’s eyebrows raise at his utterance, smug, so very smug. “Was that a request? I certainly hope it wasn’t a warning.”

Zolf grinds his teeth, more to stem the tide of words that want to slip out than out of any frustration. This is all moving faster than he was really prepared for. Ah, fuck, and what a lie that is. He wasn’t prepared for this in the _slightest_.

 _“Please_.”

Wilde's face lights up, gratified and surprised and that just makes Zolf whine again, bucking into the steady press of his knee. Making him happy… impressing him…

“This is lovely, Zolf.” Wilde says, stilling his leg and, with one final grinded shove, stepping back. “Too lovely, really. I think I’d like you another way.”

Without speaking, Wilde twirls his finger in the air and Zolf flushes, turning around and facing the wall.

“Arms up.”

Wilde moves back to fetch something and then catches up his wrists in one hand, long fingers curling most of the way around his thicker wrists side by side.

“Perfect.”

With his other hand, Wilde works quick and dextrous at Zolf's belt, pushing the heavy material of his trousers down, followed by his underwear. It definitely isn't as warm in here as Oscar made it out to be, so Zolf shivers a little as he adjusts to being so unceremoniously exposed.

Then Oscar is dragging slick fingers between his cheeks, and Zolf forgets the world entirely.

“Now. We've rather gone about this the wrong way.” Oscar says, circling his finger over Zolf's hole and audibly smiling to himself about it.

“I trust you.” Zolf says, quietly, around a gasp, because if Wilde's about to step this back he's going to have time to think about it. And he knows he doesn't want that.

“Do you?”

“You know I do, you bastard.”

Wilde laughs, a lovely sound that skitters down his spine. “That's hardly a negotiation but we can work on that later, if you're amenable?”

Zolf huffs, rocking back and groaning when the tip of Oscar's finger slips inside him.

Instantly, Oscar's grip tightens on his wrists and he stills. “That was very nice, Zolf, but let's not forget who's in charge here.”

Wilde pulls back, trailing his fingers over the rise of Zolf’s backside, curling possessively over one hip. “You have such a lovely arse, darling. Truly. Of the many I’ve seen it stands out as a particular highlight.”

Zolf grumbles, pretending that his cheeks aren’t flaming at the praise. He bites at his lip when Wilde moves his hand around further, the fingers that he’s been so fixated on wrapping slow around the heat of his cock.

“ _Oh_.” Oscar breathes, sounding so unbearably _pleased_. “Is this all for me? Aren’t I lucky.”

Zolf sighs, flexing his fingers when Wilde starts to pump him, up and down and gathering slick from the leaking tip of his cock with practiced little swipes of his palm. It’s so painfully good, so different to his own touch (not that he’s had much time recently to indulge). It doesn’t matter in the moment _why_ Wilde is so good at this. All that matters is that he’s focused on Zolf, touching Zolf and that Zolf is _enough_.

Oscar trills, chuckling to himself and pulling his hand away. Zolf grunts, dropping his head against the wall.

“Oscar…”

“Shh.” Oscar’s fingers paint his hip with his own slick as he drags them back, down between his cheeks once more. “Now. Let’s see how quickly you can come undone for me. We’ve got work to do, after all.”

Any other time he’d make some snarky retort, but Oscar’s got past the barriers and through to his core, the searching press of fingers into his arse cutting through the constant chatter of his mind and letting him _be_ …

Wilde crooks his fingers and Zolf sobs, jerking against the force of the man’s hold.

“Are you going to come untouched for me, love?” Wilde murmurs, ducking down to press his lips just below Zolf’s ear. His skin must be feverishly hot, he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his damn skin. “Paint the wall with your come? Perhaps I’ll leave it. Do you think Hamid would notice?”

Zolf gasps, feeling his cock twitch, heavy and full of blood. His stomach is twisting itself in knots, Oscar slipping a third finger into him crooking those delicately long digits against his prostate over and over.

It’s…

It’s so…

“Fuck.” He groans. “ _Oscar_.”

He comes hard enough that colours dance behind his screwed-shut eyelids and he can just make out the cooing sound of praise tripping from Oscar’s lips. The mere awareness of it makes goosebumps chase all over his skin, even if he can’t tell what the man’s saying.

Eventually, Zolf feels Oscar unwind fingers from around his wrists and guide his hands down to press against the wall. Another kiss follows on the side of his throat.

“Stay. Just a moment.”

He complies, because anything that actually involves moving right now might be the end of him. Forehead against the wall, Zolf cracks open his eyes to find he _has_ left his mark on the wall, and up across his belly as well. He fights a smile, endorphins flooding his body.

“Good?” Wilde asks, before swiping a warm damp cloth across his ass, another over his cock and stomach.

“Yes.” He murmurs in response. “Didn’t know… Hadn’t thought. That I needed that.”

“In my experience, most people don’t.” Wilde says, setting himself on his knees and turning Zolf with gentle hands. He works to pull up Zolf’s underwear and trousers with a careful attention. “But those that do... “

“Feel better?”

Wilde smiles, pressing those lovely hands of his to Zolf’s chest. “Well, one would hope.”

Zolf takes a deep breath, looking over Oscar’s expression carefully. “What now?”

“Well, normally I insist on aftercare and a debrief. But otherwise, it varies.” He says, then glances over his shoulder. “Perhaps you’d be okay with joining me on the bed for a little while? I’d like to talk it through with you.”

“Sure.” He says around the pleasant lurch of his stomach at such a prospect. “Can do that.”

Within a few moments they are curled up together on Wilde’s tiny bunk, Zolf’s head in the man’s lap as Oscar cards gentle fingers through his hair.

For the first time in a very long time, Zolf feels something that might be peace.


End file.
